


Blue Shadows

by romanoff



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Shmoop, Sleepy Cuddles, Supportive Steve Rogers, Tony Stark Needs a Hug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-07
Updated: 2015-01-07
Packaged: 2018-03-06 14:42:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3138050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/romanoff/pseuds/romanoff
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tony panics; Steve helps.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blue Shadows

He's in a meeting when it happens, which is just awful. Really uncomfortable. Not great at all. He gets to see the looks on his co-workers faces as they try not to stare, as he fixes his hands on his knees, stares at the table and freezes.

Now, it starts because he's not listening, which isn't a good idea anyway, but is infinitely worse when his mind starts to wonder. First, Tony is thinking about something else, banal things, he doesn't know, like what is he going to have for dinner and he hopes not mashed potato.

Then, he realises he's missed a good chunk of the conversation which is, uh, not great, obviously. So he tries to pick up what the people around the table are saying, tries to tune back in, and finds he can't.

Too distracted; he drums his fingers against the table.

It irritates him that he can't quite catch on to what their saying. It's a stupid little thing that is easily fixable if he just paid attention for another moment or two, but he's bored, so he starts to drift away again. And this is a problem, because it means that now, he's just a little bit on edge. Just a little bit jumpy.

So he tunes out again. Stares out the window, looks over New York. This is his tower, the tower he built with his own hands. Look at all these people. Working for his company. Those are nice shoes. Tony needs some new shoes. God, how does she wear those? He doesn't know how Pepper does it all day. Is it balance? He'll ask Natasha.

That guy has hair just like Steve. He's kinda cu -- wait, don't use the word cute, c'mon, we've been through this. What else can he see that'll distract him from what he's supposed to be doing? Oh look, Mr Stathan. Yeah, I know what _you_ did last week. No, go on, look away. I would.

That is an ugly building. Not like his at all. Why would you do that? It looks like a fucking walkie-talkie. Some architects need to be taken out and shot. Not like him, of course, his building is fantastic. Not remotely phallic shaped at all. He --

Tony blinks at the sky, at the spot just between two buildings. That -- 

He imagined it. Wormholes don't just appear at out nowhere. Probably a bird or something. A balloon.

Tony turns his attention back to the conversation, but now he can't push it from his mind. The wormhole was directly over the tower, stupid, it can't just have moved. And it can't just _appear_ either, so --

Tony tilts his head away from the window, clears his throat. A woman looks at him expectantly, as if he has something to say.

He blinks. "Oh, no." He says "Continue. Just, you know. Clearing my throat."

He laughs nervously and the negotiations continue. If, _if,_ there really was a wormhole outside his window, he's pretty sure someone would have mentioned it by now. They wouldn't just be sitting here. Someone would have sent out an alert, Steve would come and get him. Hell, Jarvis would say something. It's fine. Fuck, it's fine.

He gathers up his courage to flick his eyes back outside, glances out onto the blue metallic smear of New York.

He sees a shadow moving in the reflection of a building; long and slow, warping with the bends in the metal.

_Leviathan._

Tony fully jumps, heart beating in his chest, running his wet palms over his pant legs over and over. That's not real, that's definitely not real, you're getting worked up over nothing, Tony, nothing. He's trying to keep his breathing nice and normal because he's aware that this room is full of people and he's at the head of the table

The back of his neck prickles, his chest tightens. He stops breathing, but that doesn't stop panic cascading down his spine and into his chest, his belly, tightening his muscles and eventually causing him to take in a gasping breath.

"... Mr Stark? Are you alright?"

Tony blinks rapidly and goes for his coffee, but he spills it, hand uncoordinated and movements chopping. "Shit," he breathes, pushing back his chair "shit. I -- I need to go."

"Tony do you need an ambulance? George call 91 -- "

"I'm fine." He snaps "I'm fine. Just, just -- I need to get out, I need -- "

He slams against the door, which, handily, is also glass, getting him some strange looks. Fuck, why is everything see through in here? Why does he have to be so post-modern? Has he never fucking heard of privacy?

His slippery palms slide against the window as he pushes open the door, stumbling out into the office. People look up from their desks as Tony moves down the corridor, fingers scrabbling at his tie, heart pounding, panic throbbing. There are too many people, too many people getting in his way, and he bowls over a man carrying papers, slams into the wall, a door, finally, the elevator.

His fingers grasp the railings as he stands there panting, trying to push the panic from his bones, the irrational all-consuming fear, breathes and breathes and breathes just tries to fucking breathe through it all, because there's nothing there and it's over and he's safe and there was never any reason to --

He stumbles out onto the roof, gravel slipping under his feet as his head whips round and round in search of the threat, and of course there isn't one, there never was one. He falls to his knees, panting, hand clutching his chest, because he can't _breathe,_ he can't think at all, just swirling blue and black.

He moans, tucks his head to his knees and bows over in some kind of sham replica of reverent prayer. Pushes his forehead to the ground until the gravel pierces his forehead, his hands clutching stones like prayer beads and letting them sift through his fingers.

The world is not safe, anymore.

He sucks in a breath, deep, throwing back his spine, looking at the sky. There is no wormhole, but there was, once. That's what scares him. That's what brings the nightmares. Because if there wasn't a threat, nothing would be scary, really. If there wasn't a chance it could happen again.

Breath.

Breathing.

In and out.

His limbs shake, his sweat cooling against his brow in the sudden wind. He groans, on his knees, one hand pressed to the ground. He can't stand, not yet; he feels his pulse still pounding in his neck.

Reaching up, he finally manages to release the knot of his tie. He makes a disgusted noise, throws it onto the floor. Unbuttons his collar.

Rolls up his sleeves, and pushes damp hair back on his head. Breathes, again, makes sure he's doing it properly.

Tony rubs his eyes, and stands. Legs still shaking -- they will be for awhile -- he texts in a response to inquiring questions, saying that his heart played up, saying that he's still recovering from that surgery he had eighteen months ago and it was just a scare. He says he's taking the rest of the day to make sure he's okay.

From the very top of the building he travels all the way down to the bottom, until he's in his workshop. Toes off his shoes and slides off his belt. Starts a pot of coffee. Some music? Something light. He flicks through his mp3.

Coffee done. He pours it into a mug, sips. Adds some sugar. Thumbs down missed calls on his cell, pockets it away. Stands at the counter for a while.

Makes his way over to his cars. His favourite hobby. The one thing he takes for himself. Sips his coffee, opens the hood. Stares at the car. Stares at the car. Stares at the car.

There's no point forcing himself to make changes when none are needed. He takes his coffee and sits at his desk. Work. Picks up the patents. Puts them down in front of him. Lifts a pen. Puts it to the page. _AES,_ he signs, _AES, AES, AES._

Easy to lose himself to. Sign, pick up the page, put it away, sign, pick up the page, put it away, sign, pick up the page, put it -- 

He reads over some copyright. The words blur together but he pretends he understands it. He drinks some more coffee. He signs more papers. He drinks more coffee. He runs out of coffee. He moves to the coffee pot and he makes some more.

He adds vodka to the coffee and takes two sleeping pills. He sits on his couch and drinks. He finishes his coffee, and he lies down. He waits for the pills to kick in.

A wormhole swims in front of his eyes.

He gets out his phone. Looks at his contacts. Thumbs up and down the list, over and over. Debates.

Finger rests on different names. _Bruce, Natasha, Pepper, Rhodey, Clint, Steve._

The names blur together; he wishes he hadn't taken two pills.

He falls asleep.

And wakes up, not much later. Wipes drool from his mouth. Where is he? Workshop. Why?

He goes to the toilet. He brushes his teeth. Shaves. Cuts his cheek with his razor.

His hands are shaking.

Smooths fingers over stubble, wet with blood. Washes it away, and more rises to the surface.

Takes a shower. By the time he gets out, the bleeding has stopped. Wraps himself in a warm towel.

The workshop ground is cold against his feet.

He has food down here, so he eats some crackers. Makes some coffee. He's still so sleepy, but he can't get deep enough. He can't --

His mug hits the floor, he slips, his foot is cut deep by the ceramic shards. He blinks, twisted against the cold cement, blinking, towel wrenched from his waist. What --

He had thrown his mug, he realises. He had thrown it at the ground and slipped, feet still wet. His foot is bleeding sluggishly; it stings.

He doesn't realise that he's fallen asleep until he's warm again. Wrapped in something warm, at least. Carried. Put down on his couch.

He doesn't want to open his eyes. He already knows who it is.

Steve hums as he carefully plucks broken bits of ceramic from Tony's foot. They clink gently against each other when he places them in a bowl. "Sleep." He says, not looking up but noticing the crack of Tony's eyelids as the open.

"I dropped my coffee." Tony murmurs.

"I know," Steve says "I'll clean it up, after."

"Sorry."

"No worries."

Silence, again. This time, Steve sterilises his foot, sprays on some anaesthetic. He passes a needle through the skin, and begins to tighten the wound.

"You should have called." He says quietly.

Tony blinks slowly. "It was a bad one."

"I can tell." Steve snips the thread and packs away the scissors. Wraps a bandage round his foot. "We agreed -- "

"I know what we agreed."

Steve concedes wordlessly. He moves away, and Tony vaguely hears him cleaning up his mess.

When he comes back, there's another hot drink. "Cocoa." Steve says, thoughtfully placing it on the table. 

"Thanks."

Steve sits next to him, not quite touching. Tony holds his drink, but doesn't sip.

"I -- " he starts, and then swallows.

"In your own time." Steve says.

Tony looks down. "It was nothing."

"Worse than last time?"

"I -- yeah."

Steve nods. "Was it something someone said?"

Tony fixes his eyes on the wall. "No," he says hoarsely "no. It was -- it was just me."

"Just you." Steve says slowly.

Tony looks down once more. "It's getting worse." He croaks. "It's worse. I imagined it all myself this time, no one even said anything. I _saw_ things. I made things up."

"Did you? Or was it your mind interpreting small things in a way you wanted to perceive them?"

Tony pauses. "I didn't sleep, last night."

"You were on edge."

"Yeah."

"So maybe that's why you saw what you saw."

Tony closes his eyes. "Work through it with me again."

"Last night, you didn't sleep, right? So you were tense today. Maybe, maybe whatever kept you up was fresh in your mind."

"Yeah." Tony agrees with slight fervour. "Yeah."

"And so, you interpreted whatever it was you saw -- "

"Out the corner of my eye. I think -- it was the wormhole." Tony says, in a rush. "That was it, today. Wormhole. Couldn't stop thinking about it. Sometimes it just, it takes over my thoughts. Everything. I can't, I can't look at anything without seeing -- "

Tony sucks in a breath; Steve steadies him.

"Go on." He prompts.

"Black. And dark."

Tony doesn't even feel panic saying it, just resignation. Yes, this is what he feels. This is what it is like, life as someone who has been pushed to the limit.

"It must hurt."

"You know it does."

Steve sighs. A solid presence beside him. "How are you feeling."

"Tired."

"Can -- " Steve takes his hand. "Is it alright to touch you?"

"Yeah." Tony mutters.

"What about like this?" Steve says, signalling his intent to put his arm around Tony's shoulders. "Does that feel safe?"

Tony nods. "It feels good." He says thickly.

"Come here," Steve murmurs, tucking him closer "come on. It'll be okay, Tony. Today was just another blip."

"I'm tired of blips, Steve."

"I know. I know you are, sweetheart. It's okay, you're allowed to be."

"But I'm not allowed to be broken."

"You're allowed. You're not allowed to not try to fix yourself."

"I can't." Tony says quietly, pressing against Steve's side. "It's not that simple."

"You can start."

"You don't know what you're talking about."

"You know I do." Steve says against Tony's hair, pressing a kiss to his head.

Tony closes his eyes. "Sometimes it's like -- I don't know."

"You don't know?"

"Never mind." Tony murmurs. "Never mind. It's nothing."

Steve pauses. "Come to bed."

"Together?"

"Yeah. Now. Come on. You're tired." Steve disentangles himself, holds out a hand for Tony to grab. "It's okay." He says. "I'll wake you if there's a nightmare."

"Promise?" Tony says, and his voice cracks, just slightly.

"Of course." Steve reassures.

They take the elevator to his floor.

 

 

Tony cries out in the night, sits forward, gasping. His leg slams against Steve, shoving him partway off the bed, making him give a small noise of pain. It makes Tony more nervous than he has any right to be, and it's hard to shake off the terror of the dream. Steve stands, and Tony is torn between reaching for him or keeping himself together.

"Wait," he pants "wait. Don't go. Just -- just stay, please."

"I'm going nowhere." Steve says. "I was getting water."

"Water." Tony croaks, realising he's parched. "Yeah. That, that'll be good."

Moment pass, and then there's a cold glass in his hand, a pill pushed into his palm. "Take this." Steve says, voice rough. "It'll help."

Tony keeps staring at Steve as he drinks, swallows down the white tablet. "I'm sorry." He says, explicitly, this time.

Steve kisses his forehead. "You never have to be sorry."

"I want to be better for you." Tony mumbles, looking down, sleep-deprived and still half wrought with dull terror. "I want us to be good."

"Okay," Steve says evenly "that's understandable. As long as you know that I don't care either way. I love you either way."

"Do you prefer me when I'm broken?"

"I prefer you any way." Steve says softly, taking the glass from his hand and placing it delicately on the bedside table. "And you deserve to know that."

Tony smiles for the first time. "I know it." He says, sleepily.

Steve presses a small kiss to his cheek. "Good," he says "come back to bed."

Tony yawns; he rests his head on Steve's chest. 

"Talk to me." He murmurs. "I want to hear you speak."

Tony sighs. Steve's hand tugs lightly through his hair. "I'm tired." He mumbles.

"Good." Steve says. "Tell me about your day."

 

**Author's Note:**

> idk when i'm sad i like to make tony sadder, which, in turn, is pretty damn sad.
> 
> Comments are GREATLY APPRECIATED and if you have any questions or prompts find me on MY NEW writing blog [romanoff](http://writingromanoff.tumblr.com/)


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